If Juma and Kuya thought I was a pushover, they should prepare for a serious challenge from me.
Every serious political movement in this country begins in two places: a bar… or a staffroom.
Bars are noisy and unreliable. Staffrooms, however, are where strategy is born. Teachers are serious people. They analyse things. They debate issues. They even form committees to analyse debates about committees.
So, with the Siku Zijazo Sacco AGM and elections approaching, and yours truly having declared his intention to go for the Chairman’s seat, with the tacit support of the current CEO, it was obvious that the real campaign headquarters would be the Mwisho wa Lami Primary School staffroom.
Even before the official campaign period had started, elections in the staffroom had already begun. Quietly. Although sometimes… not so quietly.
You see, Sacco elections are delicate matters. Nobody openly says they want power. Instead, they say things like:
“I just want to serve members.”
Or:
“If members feel I can assist the Sacco in any small way…”
Which is the political version of saying, “I want that seat. I want Pawa.”
I made clear my intentions in the staffroom a day after the auditor had visited the Sacco, and after I discovered that being a Sacco chairman was a goldmine that could change my life forever.
During tea break, Sella cleared her throat and said casually:
“I hope this year the Sacco dividends will be good,” she said to no one in particular. “Last year tulichezwa.”
“Dre should tell us — he sits on the board,” responded Eric, one of the quietest teachers in our school.
“Are you sure he can comment?” said someone from the back. “Maybe they finished all our dividends going to Mombasa for useless conferences. I can tell you the per diem they were paid is more than the dividends you have ever received since joining the Sacco.”
“Our Sacco needs visionary leadership,” said Nzomo, who had joined the Sacco two years ago and expected to earn dividends like someone who had been contributing for twenty years. “I hope we will get visionary leaders when we go to elections this time. We have joked for too long.”
Nobody responded immediately. Teachers are intelligent people. They wait to see where the statement is going.
“What do you mean by visionary?” Saphire, whom I had recruited as my campaign manager, asked calmly: “Why do we need visionary leaders when we have Dre here, who is very visionary and is going for the Chairman’s seat?”
“I mean people who understand modern finance, digital banking, and governance,” said Sella.
“Dre has all that and more,” Saphire replied quickly. “He even has a laptop, does mobile banking on his phone, and handles his funds very well.”
Before the silence became uncomfortable, Lena, her bad hair in tow, spoke up. “Our Sacco is doing well,” she said. “What we need is stability.”
In Sacco politics, “stability” means “leave the current leaders alone.” Lena had always supported the current chairman. There had even been rumours about them for years — including a persistent one that he might be the father of Lena’s daughters.
“I agree completely,” said Saphire diplomatically. “We need a new generation of leaders, but with stability as well. Dre has served on the board before, which means it will not be totally new for him.”
Now things were getting serious.
At the corner table, Madam Anita stopped marking exam papers. She had been quiet the whole time, but everyone knew Anita was the real political strategist in the staffroom.
She looked up slowly.
“So Lena,” she asked gently, “which position are you preparing for, or who are you supporting?”
The staffroom went silent.
Even the kettle stopped boiling.
“No, no… I am not supporting anyone,” Lena said defensively. “I am just asking for stability. You people have no idea how bad an unstable Sacco can be. I once lost Sacco money because of instability.”
The bell signalling the end of tea break rang and teachers left for their classes.
The campaigns intensified last week.
As you know, our lunch club collapsed last year after teachers failed to honour their financial promises. So during lunch time, those of us who do not carry food usually take a walk or pretend to be busy marking books while hunger quietly attacks our stomachs.
But last Wednesday, something unusual happened. As we were teaching before lunch, the aroma of chapati, rice and chicken began floating through the classrooms. It was so strong that it started distracting teachers from teaching.
Almost everyone was in the staffroom at least 10 minutes before lunchtime. The first three crates of soda were delivered to the staffroom. There were also assorted fruits — bananas, watermelons and mangoes.
Then the kitchen staff started bringing food. Rice. Matumbo. Chicken. Ndengu. Chapati. Everything.
What I did not understand was why the food was so much when we were so few. Then I saw Lena making phone calls.
Soon, teachers from Mwisho wa Lami Secondary School also arrived. Workers from both schools joined us — watchmen, secretaries, accounts clerks, cooks, cleaners, everyone. Then several boda boda riders also arrived.
Even Kuya, who had been transferred to another school, appeared suddenly and joined in the eating. More soda was delivered, and before we knew it, the whole place had turned into a full jamboree.
The whole thing had clearly been planned. The only problem was that I did not know who.
Nobody asked where the food had come from. Those questions are only asked after the meal.
Once we had finished eating, someone made a hissing sound to draw our attention. Silence fell.
“My fellow teachers,” began Kuya, who had greeted everyone except me.
“I know you are wondering why we invited so many people here. Everyone here is a member of Siku Zijazo Sacco, which we all love.”
He continued: “As you know, our Sacco AGM is coming up. Members must think carefully about its leadership. The Chairman, Mr Juma, is doing a great job. Although he has travelled to Dubai for benchmarking with other Saccos, he asked me to come here and greet you.”
He paused. “Have you received his greetings?”
“Yes!” the crowd roared back, led by the many boda boda riders.
“Two Tam! Two Tam! Two Tam!” someone started shouting.
“He only has one message,” Kuya continued. “And I also have one message.”
“Tell us!”
“Amesema mmkumbuke on the day of the AGM… and he will never forget you.”
The crowd erupted.
“And also remember me,” Kuya added. “I want to join the board so that I can strengthen our ICT, which is currently down.”
There was a celebration everywhere.
“Kuya! Kuya! Kuya!”
Then he dismissed the crowd. And left.
I called Lena to my office and confronted her.
“I did not organise anything,” she said calmly. “People just love Juma. You saw it yourself.”
I realised accusing Lena was a waste of time; I needed to fight Kuya and Juma. Saphire, my campaign manager, came to see me. “Hii kura haitaki akili, inataka pesa. Umeona Chair amemwaga pesa. Uko na pesa?”
I did not have money, but we agreed that if I was serious, I had to have money. I called the Sacco CEO, who agreed to facilitate a Sacco loan for me, even though I did not qualify.
“Don’t worry; we will sort once you are chairman. You may not even pay back,” he assured me. If Juma and Kuya thought I was a pushover, they should prepare for a serious challenge from me. We are going for nothing but a win! I have the brains, the strategy, and now the money!
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